


Keith Hates Whiny Guitarists

by Sherlaufeyson



Category: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6032257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlaufeyson/pseuds/Sherlaufeyson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith keeps getting his naptime interrupted by whiny, self-loathing guitarists.</p><p>Set 1968 during The Rolling Stones' Rock'n'roll Circus</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keith Hates Whiny Guitarists

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this many years ago on Livejournal under a pseudonym, just in case anyone recognises it.  
> This amused me to write and think of. Also, for the record, I completely adore The Beatles and George's fashion sense.

Keith was getting fed up with listening to the continued whining of the guitarists they’d invited on the show. Honestly, how much was he expected to be subjected to before he could legitimately get a shotgun and put them all out of their misery? Well, maybe that was a bit harsh, but he’d been up since three in the morning two days ago, thanks to a pre-shooting booty call from Mick. He remembered it fondly, a small smile crossing his face, and sparking some life into his tired eyes as he feigned interest in the inane babbling that the other guitarist was subjecting him to at the moment. In the time he’d been up he was sure he’d spent at least 12 hours listening, just listening to them whining. In his resident ‘guitarist who captured the heart of the enigmatic front-man’ position, he found they all came to him, and within two minutes were moaning about the frustration of unrequited love for the unattainable.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Hours ago, Pete had come to him.

“Hey, Keith.”

“Hey.”

“Um...You got a minute?”

“Sure, I think you guys are on about eight.”

“Oh, right.”

Pete sat down next to him, up in the Stones’ box.

“This was a really great idea, Keith.”

“Not me, mate. The wife’s,” he said, pointing at Mick who was barking instructions to the camera men below.

Pete smiled awkwardly, “Figures.” He stuck his hands between his knees. “So, um...I was wondering – that is, ah,”

“Spit it out, mate.”

“Well, you and Mick are fucking, right?”

Well, that was to the point. Keith glared at him, before noticing the tone of the younger man’s voice. He didn’t say it derogatorily, just as though looking for reassurance.

Assuming an air of nonchalance borrowed from Charlie, Keith lit up a cigarette; offering one to Pete, and said, “What’s it to ya?”

Taking the non-answer as confirmation, Pete asked, “Cause, um...well, that is...er – How did you get someone like Mick to be interested, I mean – he’s beautiful and er, you’re –“

Keith glared at him again.

“Well, you have big ears,” he said, pointing at his own nose as a concession.”

“Well, Mick’s never complained about the size of my ears before,” he replied, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, OH,” Pete said, eyes widening slightly in comprehension.

Keith assumed Pete had been asking with regards to the rather feisty blond that was his singer. But when Mick walked through the curtains, Pete immediately stood up, offering his chair, his cheeks turning a rather vivid shade of pink. Keith’s eyes narrowed. No-one was stealing his Mike.

Mick declined the seat invitation, instead just complaining about the audience not being ‘full of life’ enough to come across well on film. Keith supposed that maybe if they joined the audience, it would liven them up again. “But that will ruin the effect of us being ringmasters,” Mick whined. Keith rolled his eyes at Pete as if to say ‘You see what I have to put up with!’ Pete grinned and when Mick left he sat back down.

Keith continued, “Trust me! You’re better off with birds – much lower maintenance!”

Pete didn’t answer straight away, but looked as if he was about to cry, “But it’s just not fair.”

The metaphorical bait looked positively nauseating, hanging in mid-air, but Keith bit it anyway. Gritting his teeth, he asked, “What’s not fair, Pete.”

“Well, what you and Jagger have is so beautiful.”

At this Keith rolled his eyes.

“No. Really, it is. Why would Roger even stay with me? I know I’m not actually fooling anyone with my guitar playing, and I can only write pretentious lyrics. Most of the time, Rog doesn’t get them, even when they’re blatantly about him; but if I try to explain them he gets all angry and defensive. And he only ever wanted to be in a blues band, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t write blues lyrics. I’m an artist. I can’t write songs where the lyrics are like “my baby she left me/my baby she’s really gone/my baby she left me/and now I’m all alone...”!” Seeing the look on Keith’s face he added, “Sorry, I do like your writing.”

Keith harrumphed and puffed on his cigarette; the truth was that he was biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself laughing. Anyone with eyes could see that the singer doted on the moping guitarist. God knows why Keith thought as he mentally prepared himself for another monologue of self-deprecation.

“The Who have been going five years now, and everyone knows Roger. Do you think he’ll leave? No, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. I mean; Ox and Moonie nearly left to join Page and Plant to form a band. What if Roger leaves because I whine too much?”

Keith long-sufferingly took another drag on his cigarette and put his shades on, figuring he could do with some shut eye while the guitarist was still rambling.

“...So what do you think I should do?”

Keith removed the glasses. “Really?” he asked, “You really want to know what I think you should do?” He saw the earnest look of desperation in the younger man’s eyes, and felt a twinge of empathy, remembering his own lovesick pining of a few years ago. “Let him catch you wanking in the bathroom.”

Pete was stunned into shocked silence for a moment before replying, “What? NO! Why would you do that?”

Keith fixed him with a withering glare before continuing, “To see his reaction,” the older guitarist said simply, seeing the guitarists still uncomprehending look, he added, “Look, if he stands there dumbly or runs away, it means he wants you, problem solved; but if he tries to laugh it off, he either doesn’t want you, or he’s a good actor.”

“But, what do I do if he laughs?” Pete asked, still not entirely convinced of the mildly stoned guitarist’s explanation.

“Flirt! – worked for me with Mick,” Keith shrugged his shoulders and stood up to escape yet another barrage of questions. Pete got up and wrapped his lanky arms around the guitarist in an awkward bear hug.

At that moment, Roger walked out from the curtain looking for Pete so they could start taping. Keith saw him, and coughed. As Pete’s eyes locked on Roger’s his heart sank. Roger looked furious with him. He hadn’t seen that look in the older man’s eyes since they’d first met and the volatile singer had threatened to beat him up with his belt.

Pete extricated himself from the Stone’s arms, and walked over to Roger, who hissed at him. “Where the fuck you been, Pete? Could you keep your bloody cock in your pants for half an hour when we’re working?”

Pete grabbed Roger’s shoulder, spinning the shorter man around to face him, “Keith and I weren’t – that is, we were just –” looking into Roger’s eyes he saw more than the pure fury he’d identified before. The singer looked genuinely hurt. In a brave move that he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of attempting a mere half hour ago, he gripped Roger’s shoulders, bending his neck to capture the blonde’s mouth in a ferocious kiss.

Roger struggled initially, not used to the lack of control; but as Pete’s tongue licked at his lower lip, he let out a soft moan, opening his mouth to the guitarist’s. He relaxed into the kiss, savouring the feel of relinquishing control to the man whose tongue and roving hands were now making his mind fog over with lust.

Keith ignored the spectacle carrying on a yard away from where he was standing, choosing instead to replace his glasses and catch a few moments shut eye. He began to drift off; feeling his entire morning of offering insight, advice and consolation to the angst-ridden guitarist had been a completely pointless waste of time.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

He was rudely awoken by the glare of a bright orange jumper reflecting light into his eyes. Blearily he removed his glasses and looked up at the guitar god who had seen fit to deprive him of his long overdue naptime.

Eric Clapton stood before him, in some godawful jumper that some tasteless muso-friend had probably bought for him. Not for the first time, Keith thanked his lucky stones that Mick would rather shoot him than let him wear that in public. Keith had a feeling that he knew just the fashion criminal who had bought Eric that jumper, but purely for kicks in knowing that once again, his band could beat the Beatles for class, he decided to ask the mock-deity, “Hey, Eric; nice jumper!”

“Oh hi, Keith,” a blush crept across his face clashing horribly with the jumper, “George got it for me. Congratulations on the new album, by the way! We were listening to it just yesterday. He’s sorry he can’t be here today, but you know how it is...” The guitarist trailed off, suddenly looking rather sullen. “This gig was a great idea, though. Should be one for the record books,” he added.

Keith looked warily at the younger man; he really wasn’t in the mood for another unrequited heartbreak sob story. Thankfully the two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching in amusement at Mick, still barking orders to the camera men. Eric looked quizzically at Keith.

“How long do you think the Stones are going to go on for?” he asked.

Keith considered this, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “I guess so long as we’re still enjoying it, we’ll keep on ‘til we drop,” he answered.

“You know George isn’t happy,” Eric began, “He seems happy, but I know he isn’t. It’s all the bickering that John and Paul do, and he gets caught up in the middle of it the whole time. That’s why he went to Woodstock to hang out with Dylan. Did you know he was gone for two whole months?”

Keith could see that this onslaught of questions was going to result in him sitting and listening as a sounding board again, so he attempted to draw the train of conversation away from its inevitable spiral towards unrequited angst-ridden whiny guitarist moaning. Everyone knew that it was going to be a mere matter of months before Eric and George finally shacked up in Ibiza or some other foreign getaway. He had a bet going with Charlie that they’d be together by New Year. If he played his cards right now, he might be able to get a slight advantage in their wager. “So why is it so bad that he was off in the States? You were pretty busy yourself.”

“It’s Patti,” he replied.

This knocked Keith for six. “What?” he asked.

“Patti Boyd – Patti Harrison,” seeing the dumbstruck look on Keith’s face, he wondered if the guitarist was more inebriated than he seemed, “Remember? You did a photo shoot with her. Blon-“

“Yeah, yeah I know. But what’s this got to do about her?” Keith asked.

“She’s his wife, you know. And she gets lonely when he’s not around. He’s not very good to her.” Eric added. “And I think – I might, maybe be falling for her.” Keith didn’t seem to have anything to say in response to this shocking revelation he’d divulged, so he plunged on, “So when he gets fed up with the Beatles, and decides to go on a holiday, he leaves me the job of ‘wife-guarding’. Me! How am I supposed to keep away from her, like a best friend ought to, when he tells me to stay at Friar Park and live in the same house as Patti?”

Keith was still not convinced. As he thought of the best way to gently let Eric know that he was, in fact, in love with George; he considered with glee how jealous this would make Mick, that he was matchmaking without him. Deciding to focus Eric’s attentions on George, he asked, “So, what is so bad about the Beatles that it makes George need to run away to the other side of the world?”

Eric rushed to the defence of his best friend, “George isn’t running away! He just needed some time to cool off. You wouldn’t believe the arguments that Paul and John get into!” At the disbelieving look from Keith as the Stone considered the many headaches he had received from his own writing partner, Eric amended his previous comment, “Well, maybe you do. But from what George tells me, they honestly want to kill each other more than half the time. But when they argue, they bring him into the argument, and after a few moments, both turn on him as a punching bag. So George is worried, that if he stays, the band will break up from the tension; and if he leaves it will break up anyway. And if he leaves then comes back, it will drive him insane.”

Keith considered what Eric had said, inwardly smirking at the passion with which the guitarist had rushed to his ‘best friend’s’ aid and the soft way he said George’s name every time. “So is it just the bickering, then?”

“No, not just that, there’s also the issues with Apple, and your old manager and I really think that the band will be broken up within six months at this rate.”

Keith decided to play the therapist this time, “So why are you upset about being left alone in the house with Patti? I really can’t see George getting upset if you keep her company -” at this Keith raised an eyebrow, “– while he spends a month or two away from home to cool off. Are you more worried about Patti’s feelings on the matter, or George’s?”

Eric was stuck. It was Patti that he was in love with. “I’m in love with Patti, Keith,” he said, “But I can’t betray George.”

“And why not,” Keith asked quickly.

“Because I love him,” Eric looked shocked as the words left his mouth, “Because I’m in love with her, I love her...”

Keith looked at Eric, waiting for an opportunity to reveal the final piece of information required to ensure he win his bet with Charlie. He was really beginning to find some sort of satisfaction in this. If the Stones did break up in the not-too-distant future, he might have something of a career as a celebrity shrink!

Eric fixed a pleading gaze on Keith, “I’m in love with Patti; I love Patti; it’s Patti that I want – Oh my God, I’m in love with George.”

He dropped his head into his hands, and began massaging his temples. “I can’t be in love with George,” he whined. At this Keith began reconsidering his last revelation.

“Sure you can,” Keith said, beginning to lose patience. “Works for me and Mick.”

Eric’s head shot up from his hands, “Wh-what?!” he asked, “You and...Mick?”

“Yeah,” Keith replied as nonchalantly as he could, considering he’d only first revealed this nugget of possible tabloid fodder a few short hours ago. “Works for us,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, and lighting up another cigarette, offering one to Eric. “You didn’t know?”

Eric shook his head and closed his eyes to think. Why did he love George? Did he even love George? Why the fuck did life decide to get confusing all of a sudden. He liked birds, mostly. Orgies didn’t count as gay, did they? Was he gay? Maybe he should ask Keith...

Keith was studying the younger man. Perhaps he should put the poor bugger out of his misery. He didn’t want to push though. He reached out an arm to Eric’s shoulder, encouraging him to look up.

“Hey,” he said softly as Eric raised his eyes with a look of desperation that was eerily reminiscent of the look that Keith would often catch in the mirror several years ago. “You know George better than anyone else. Just go and talk to him. I can’t see this being something so shocking that it would ruin what you’ve already got. He did tell me - unwittingly, mind – that John and Paul had tried it on with him at one time or other, though like a true gentleman, he didn’t give details.”

Eric gulped, looking intently at Keith. He’d never known that the hell-raising guitarist was this sensitive; perhaps the man was one of those strong, silent observer types that seemed to be at the heart of the mischief due to the company he kept. His eyes drifted over to John and Keith, sitting with their heads inclined together, no doubt debating which lavatory stall, if blown up, would cause the most mayhem for the limited assortment of explosives the drummer had been able to acquire. He clapped his hands to his jeans and stood up to thank Keith before leaving.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Keith leaned back in his chair, with his head rested on the back of it and a hat over his face so that he could finally get some kip. He had just drifted off into a fantasyland, where Mick was about to blow him covered in candyfloss, when he started awake as his hat was knocked off his head. Again his eyes were subjected to a harsh unsympathetic light as they tried to deduce the identity of the human-shaped shadow looming over him.

“What the fuck did you just tell that interfering cunt of a guitarist about my band?” Keith groaned and waved his hand in front of his face, hoping to shoo away a very angry John Lennon who seemed intent on interrogating him at this very inopportune moment.

“What the hell, John! I didn’t tell him anything.” Keith mumbled from behind the hat he’d replaced over his face, so at least he could convince his eyes he was sleeping. “He was upset about George, so I tried to say something to get him to leave. What did he tell you?”

John looked somewhat placated as he settled into the chair next to Keith, missing the curse let out from the guitarist’s lips as he realised he was going to be kept up another few hours by yet more inane babble from an insecure, whinging guitarist. Keith removed the hat to get a better look at his new patient.

John, like the rest of the Rock’n’Roll Circus cast had bags under his eyes, and dilated pupils from whatever drug had last been smuggled into the venue. Keith didn’t think he looked good at all, and for him that was saying something.

“I was playing with Yoko and Julian, and then Eric comes up, and straight up asks if I slept with George. So I asked why, and he said he’d been talking to you. I don’t know what George has been saying, but I’m not talking about it.” Keith lit up a cigarette, offering one to the older man.

“I didn’t say anything, just tried to convince him that if he tells George he’s got the horn for him, George won’t go crazy on him and kick him out of Friar Park.”

“Oh, well of course he won’t. All I’ve heard from George for the past 4 years is how incredible Clapton is, and Eric this and Eric that, and did you know Eric said this, and can Eric come to the session tomorrow, and can Eric play on this track, and Eric is coming over for tea today, and Eric is so nice to my wife, and do you think it would scare him if I asked him to this orgy, only I really want to jump his bones, but can’t find a good enough excuse.” John started ranting, in a high-pitched version of George’s accent, with a voice borrowed from one of Terry Jones’ housewives.

This brought a wry smile to Keith’s lips, as he thought of the ridiculous kids television show and he considered, not for the first time, that the charismatic Beatle would have made a great comedic actor. “So, I guess there’ll be no problems there then,” he prompted the older guitarist.

“Well, no.” John conceded, “But – look, just don’t...just leave me out of it alright!”

Keith looked confused at the rather despairing tone and pathetic words of the usually articulate, acerbic icon. He saw the older man’s eyes shimmer and reached out his hand to rest on his shoulder. He felt the body beneath his hand softly shaking and his curiosity got the better of him. “Hey, mate. What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you what’s the bloody matter, mate,” John replied in a more characteristic, sarcastic tone and Keith wished he’d not opened his mouth. “I’ve got a kid I’m hardly allowed to see; a band that’s falling apart; a girlfriend whom said band seems intent on hating and a b – and isn’t that bad enough?” he rounded on the man sitting next to him. “You tell me what’s the matter!” he demanded. Keith looked thoughtfully at the older man, sensing the hours of babble in store for him, and the consequent debate that would follow the same lines as his past two pray-to-god-you-get-smote-before-you-can-die-of-old-age-waiting-for-the-bugger-to-shut-up-or-leave type conversations. He decided to out with the inevitable conclusion before he went mad.

“Look John,” he interrupted the guitarist, “Face it. You’re in love with Paul McCartney.” What he hadn’t expected from the older man, was for him to jump up in rage, kick his shin violently and punch him right across the jaw. John’s fists were still clenched at his sides by the time Keith had been able to work out what had hit him.

“I. Am. Not. In. Love. With. That. Piece. Of. Shit,” he spat out through gritted teeth. He felt like strangling the pathetic guitarist, cradling his jaw in front of him. As his chest heaved, he saw the younger man moving his jaw about, not seeming to have lost full function of it, at least. The quick-tempered guitarist sat back down, fists still clenched, and face red either from embarrassment or anger; neither man was sure.

Keith exhaled through his nose, thankful that he’d lifted his head back, so the other guitarists blow had only grazed his jaw and that the kick had, in fact, only hit the steel base of the chair he was sitting on. He looked over at the man next to him, who was looking somewhat abashed and shocked, but mostly thoughtful. He didn’t consider himself possessed of enough luck to allow him to get any sleep today, so he took another deep drag of his cigarette as he leaned his head back against the chair again.

After a few long minutes, a timid voice spoke up beside him, “Y-You really think I love Macca?” he asked, “I mean, that I-I’m in love with him?” John looked over at Keith, biting his lip.

“If you want the honest truth, and won’t hit me again, then yeah. You’re in love with him. Now go, kiss and make up. And let me get some fucking rest, OK?” Keith breathed in deeply; praying to whichever gods might listen, that the other guitarist would take the less than subtle suggestion, and finally bugger off.

John stood up, squeezed the younger man’s shoulder in a silent thank you; and then ducked through the curtains to give the aging rock-star his beauty sleep.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

The second Keith had managed to reposition his hat and close his eyes; he heard the unmistakeable sound of a frustrated Mick Jagger storming towards him from behind the curtain. Closing his eyes more tightly, in the vain hope of willing the man to disappear, he groaned again as Mick removed the hat to talk to him.

He was somewhat consoled by the lips he felt on his own and the hand that carded through his tangled mop of hair, tugging on it with just the right amount of pressure to make him moan into Mick’s mouth.

Whimpering slightly as the singer’s warm mouth removed itself from his, he opened his eyes as Mick moved to sit in his lap. He smirked, and wrapped his arms around the waiflike frame, letting his hands rest just below the man’s stomach. He nuzzled into Mick’s neck, licking and biting it softly, grinning against the skin as the singer writhed on his lap and let out a slight moan of protest.

“No, Keith, not now. You have no idea what I’ve had to put up with today!” he started. Keith’s head rocked back into the seat. Not another one!, he thought. Whiny guitarists were one thing, but a whiny singer, who also happened to be his only chance of a shag tonight was not something he was prepared to add to his agenda. Mick continued, “The cameramen had no clue, we had to get in a whole new audience, and Brian has been an absolute nightmare to deal with!”

Keith had to stop this NOW, before it went any further. “Yeah, Mick, I’ve had a rough day as well. I’ve had to deal with a whining Townshend, a self-loathing Clapton and an angry Lennon.” Mick looked at his boyfriend apologetically, before getting to his knees.

Keith sat up, but the singer pushed him back, unzipping his jeans. Before he had a chance to protest the sense in Mick blowing him right there above the stage, he found his cock completely engulfed by the singer’s mouth. His head lolled back and he let out a guttural groan as Mick employed every trick that could get the guitarist panting and shaking within five minutes. Keith tried to hold on, but with Mick sucking insistently and placing slow deliberate licks along the underside of his cock, he could hold back no longer and muffled his scream into his arm as he came violently, shuddering through the aftershocks of what may have been the quickest orgasm he’d had since he’d graduated puberty.

Mick licked his lips, doing up Keith’s pants again and sitting back on the now completely wrecked looking guitarist. He placed his hand on the younger man’s chest, to feel the still very irregular heartbeat as he leant his head forward to capture his lips in a soft kiss. “I’m sorry Keith. How about we don’t try this concert-thing again, aye?” Keith mumbled something unintelligibly against his chest, so he continued, “But we do have to go on in five, you alright?”

Keith looked daggers at the older man, “It’ll take more than a quick blowjob to make up for today, mate! I had to listen to a whole day of whinging guitarists.”

“Well...” Mick began, running little circles with his forefinger over Keith’s chest, “You know the finale?”

Keith grunted acknowledgement, “Yeah, the big group sing – what of it?”

“You can sit next to me, and Marianne can take the floor,” he said, with the grandiose air of a monarch announcing the arranged marriage of a first-born.

Keith looked up at the singer with a face so adorable in vulnerability that Mick had to restrain himself from ravishing the guitarist then and there, “Really?” he asked, cursing his own insecurities.

“Yeah, and I’ll hold onto your leg in case you get scared of the big bad cameramen,” Mick added jokingly. As he saw the hurt look beginning to form on the younger man’s face, he leaned in to kiss him. “I love you, Keith,” he murmured against the guitarist’s lips, and felt the smile creeping across the man’s face.

“Love you too, Mike.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic of Sherlaufeyson's 'Keith Hates Whiny Guitarists'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244002) by [Poodleofhell (MephistosPoodle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MephistosPoodle/pseuds/Poodleofhell), [sweetdreamsgreenbeans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetdreamsgreenbeans/pseuds/sweetdreamsgreenbeans)




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